


cavē canis

by Arianne, patrexes



Series: Kinktober 2019 [9]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Kinktober 2019, Listen This Is Not High Literature, M/M, Pet Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 16:03:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20969255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arianne/pseuds/Arianne, https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrexes/pseuds/patrexes
Summary: O dog, beware.





	cavē canis

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: pet play

“The pilus on guard called me your bitch again,” says sas Bælsar in lieu of any greeting that could be considered proper. 

Solus meets the indolence with a wave of his hand, neglecting to look up from his work. “You do come when called.” 

“Your Radiance,” comes the acknowledgement at last, fair uncertain. “Where do you want me?” Gaius knows by now why he’s bid to come to Solus’ personal tent, when the tribunus’ work is finished. From the corner of his eye Solus sees him begin to strip, thankfully without having to be told; likely he’s been half hard since he received his summons. 

“On your hands and knees.” He must expect he’s going to get fucked; had he not mentioned the pilus’ remark, like as not he would have been correct. Solus snaps at the level of his hip to disabuse him of the notion: as ever, Bælsar yields to his master’s command, crawls genuflect on the uneven ground to his side and comes to rest at heel. 

Solus hums his approval, removing his belt. “Good dog,” he says, and fastens it around his tribunus’ throat in mockery of a leash. With the tail of the belt wrapped twice around his palm, Solus pulls. 

Gaius wheezes, the thick leather of the belt tearing into his airway sharp and unforgiving, though his breath is not cut off—even these mortals are not so fragile as that, and Bælsar less than most. Otherwise he seems little enough impeded—pre beads on the head of his cock, Gaius trained well by now to associate this degradation with the base pleasures of flesh. 

Solus cards the fingers of his free hand through Gaius’ hair, angling out his leg at the knee to press the heel of his boot between his dog’s thighs. “You want to hump my leg, boy?” 

Bælsar knows better than to speak. Instead, though it digs the belt harder into his flesh, he tilts his head into Solus’ petting hand and whines, high and desperate with youth and that _relentless_ need for approval his father so helpfully instilled. 

It’s cute, really. 

Solus takes care to bleed out from his sigh any hint of that affection: let Gaius do more to earn it—and no doubt he would—and make him ever more faithful for it. “I suppose one can hardly fault a bitch in heat for wanting to be bred,” he says, voice coming as cold as the winter air which carries it. “Very well then. Piss on my boots and perhaps I’ll mount you yet.” 

Gaius hangs his head, but given permission, he rocks his hips into the hard line of Solus’ heel, smearing boot and hem with his pre and panting for the contact. Solus’ boots are dirty, but then, so is sas Bælsar, and the boy’s never once complained of it. He makes them in short work to be messier yet, that youthful need requiring ever so little to sate it, the whine in Gaius’ throat breaking from the lack of breath. 

Solus spares a glance over the dispatch he’s scanning—a skirmish with the local flavor in some village deep in Golmore, more trouble than Gaius and with so much less potential for entertainment—to look upon Gaius’ flushed face, his mouth half-open with the breath rattling in his lungs and what come has not stained Solus’ hem a puddle on the rug. “What a mess you’ve made,” he comments blandly, supposing already he’ll have some rank-and-file in need of punishment scrape it up once it’s dried. 

But then Gaius tugs at his leash, his elbows half bowing, and so Solus lets the belt slack enough to see where this will lead—watches in astonishment as the boy, unbidden, laps his mess up off the floor. 

He lets the fondness into his voice. “_Good_ boy. I think you’ve earned a spot at the foot of my bed tonight.”

**Author's Note:**

> everyone reading these knows “piss” is roman slang for come at this point, right? cool


End file.
